


Refined Tastes

by LittlebutFiery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Banter, Gen, Hidden Talents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlebutFiery/pseuds/LittlebutFiery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Solo and Gaby tease him for being unrefined, Illya proves he has an artistic side after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refined Tastes

**Author's Note:**

> Written by request for my best friend, a pianist.

“Honestly, I’m beginning to think I can’t take the two of you anywhere,” Gaby scowled, valiantly trying to fight the smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. The three of them had attempted to get dinner at a nice restaurant in Paris between missions…only to find themselves kicked out of the restaurant before their hors d’oeuvres had even arrived.

“I played no part in this,” Napoleon protested. “Peril was the one who accused the sommelier of ripping us off.”

“The wine he brought us was not the quality we paid for,” Illya huffed, offended. He paused and pressed on, “Besides. Your flirting with the waitress did not help anything.”

“Neither did yelling at the maître d’!” Napoleon accused.

“Easy there, boys,” Gaby stepped between them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. She smirked and said, “It’s okay. Maybe one day my charm and class will rub off on you two.”

“You drink vodka like it’s water,” Illya said flatly. “You are many things, chop shop girl, but a socialite is not one of them.”

“If anything, I’m the one with class here,” Napoleon put in. “After all, I do make my risotto with truffles.”

“Your stinky food doesn’t make you classy, even if it is expensive,” Gaby rolled her eyes. She paused and smiled teasingly at Illya. “But, he is right. He does have a taste for art. Maybe Napoleon is refined enough to take places after all.”

“You think I have no taste for art?” Illya asked, hurt.

“I saw what you did to your hotel room in Rome,” Napoleon countered. “I know you have no taste for it.”

“There are more kinds of art than paintings, Cowboy,” Illya replied, ducking into a shop they were passing by.

“Wait – Illya, what are you doing?” Gaby called after him, catching the door and following him into the shop.

“Showing you that I am just as refined as Cowboy. Maybe more,” Illya replied with a smile, sitting down.

It took Gaby and Napoleon a moment to notice their surroundings – they were in a small music shop that was empty besides them and the shopkeeper. Illya was sitting at the centerpiece of the showroom, a shiny, beautiful grand piano.

“Going to serenade us, Peril?” Napoleon asked, leaning on the edge of the piano. “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, or whatever they teach the little Soviet boys and girls?”

Illya smacked his elbow. “This is Steinway piano. Don’t touch it.”

Napoleon jumped away, rubbing his elbow and looking annoyed. Illya stood up and called to the shopkeeper in French, “May I play, sir?”

“Only if you play Claire de Lune,” the shopkeeper replied. “It’s my favorite.”

Illya smiled. “I can do that.”

“Do we need to find the music for you?” Gaby asked.

Illya glared at her like she had insulted him. He pouted, “What kind of amateur do you take me for?”

Gaby’s brows scrunched together in confusion at Illya’s obvious offense. Before she could press the matter, he turned back to the piano, quickly stretched his fingers, and found the starting position he needed.

Napoleon was watching with more than a little bit of interest, expecting the Soviet to be technically perfect and musically dead. Instead, he was surprised to find within a few seconds, Illya’s playing was completely perfect, even though he was playing from memory. Every note was delicate, every phrase tapered off just so, and the melody was as graceful and light as a bird.

Gaby, Napoleon, and the shopkeeper watched in statuesque silence, awed by the surprising show of skill from the man. After a few minutes, which seemed much too short, Illya hit the last notes. They hovered in the air a moment, as though the whole store was suspended in time, before Illya gently let the pedal up and the shop fell into complete silence.

The shopkeeper clapped, delighted. “Monsieur, feel free to play my piano any time it pleases you.”

“Merci, Monsieur,” Illya nodded.

“Illya, that was beautiful. You never told me you could play piano,” Gaby said, looking touched.

“You never asked,” was Illya’s coy response.

Napoleon huffed, annoyed he was no longer the self-appointed most refined in the group. He grumbled, “It wasn’t bad.”

Gaby and Illya turned to Napoleon in sync, identical expressions of disdain on their faces. Gaby said, “Well, then clearly you have no appreciation for art besides paintings. That was beautiful.”

Illya smirked at Napoleon, a victorious gleam in his eyes. The Soviet turned to Gaby and said, “I would be happy to teach you, my little chop shop girl.”

“These hands are made for hard work, not music,” Gaby waved him off.

“Music is hard work,” Illya insisted. “Good for discipline. Besides. If those little fingers of yours can fiddle with car parts, they can fiddle with piano keys. You would be very good at it.”

Gaby smiled, looking pleased. Napoleon sighed again. Trying to prevent this loss from getting even more drastic, he whined, “Can we please go get dinner now?”

“Yes,” Illya nodded. He smirked again. “But I pick restaurant this time. Clearly, I have more refined taste.”

He linked his arm with Gaby’s and walked out the shop door, chuckling at the sour look on Napoleon’s face.


End file.
